


Lord Snow and the Madam

by meisie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Banter, Brothel Setting, Costume Smut, Edwardian Period, F/M, Female Gaze, Lavish descriptions of the bean, Lieutenant Commander Snow, London, Overwhelming desire, Shameless Smut, Smut and Feels, Splendid Uniform, Wooing, moustache kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-25 04:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17717921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meisie/pseuds/meisie
Summary: Madam Daenerys runs the finest gentleman’s establishment in Mayfair, and knowing men and all their ways, has little time for the pleasures and distractions of an alluring stranger. But a persistent, mysterious visitor to her brothel may just change her mind. Alternative universe, Edwardian London setting, luscious smut, splendidly handsome moustache bean.





	1. Chapter 1

_ _

 

_ A/N: Like most fans of Kit Harington, I’m wondering when the hell he’s going to get rid of that fuzzy caterpillar moustache. Having the 998th whinge about it yesterday, I got thinking about one of my other kinks, which is splendid red British army uniforms usually worn at formal occasions, or back in the day to fight Zulus etc (how did they conquer the world with no fucking camouflage, a girl wonders). I thought the moustache would be tolerable with a handsome uniform, which turned into a Photoshop job, which turned into a fic. Enjoy, and I promise I will return to my neglected fics very soon.  _

 

_ Credit must go to  _ **_Justwanderingneverlost_ ** _ and her always great visuals. This wouldn’t have happened without her.  _

  
  


It was a typical Tuesday evening at the The Red Door, with only a few tipsy quality folk in top hats and tails calling in after the latest opera at Covent Garden, and her regular group of officers, who paid a monthly visit after their regimental dinner. All was peaceful at this late hour, her dead husband’s men guarding the door against unwanted clientele, or the local police, who occasionally paid a call after the outraged matrons of the neighbourhood had complained too much about the gaiety and depravity within. She was free to walk the floor, her filmy red gown streaming behind her, drinking a small beaujolais and reflecting on all she had achieved in this most difficult trade. 

She owned this three storeyed building of white painted stone, its themed boudoirs, fine furnishings, the gaslights that flanked the grey marble steps, the red painted door which gave the brothel its name, and the security and achievement made her chest swell with pride under her chiffon bodice. She also owned it’s reputation for beautiful, happy ladies and even happier punters. Her staff were clean and sweet and willing, and guarded fiercely by her doormen, anyone thinking they could get away with hurting her girls was going to find themselves in the Thames with a slit throat, or broken kneecaps if they were lucky. 

As she prowled, checking the lobby, the bar, and listening on the stairs for any trouble, she she paused in the arch to admire the grand reception rooms, which were sparkling in the new electric lights she had just installed. There were no girls performing tonight on the small stage, only five were on duty and all were taken. The brocade settees and chairs were occupied by a sleeping baronet, a group of card players, and the Lieutenant-Commander of His Majesty’s Ninth Dragoons, who was as usual sitting quietly, nursing a glass of whisky and surveying her with his big, dark eyes in what he imagined to be a discreet fashion. 

Once a month on a Tuesday he was always there, the mysterious and silent Lord Snow. His men trooped upstairs and availed themselves of Trixie, Belle, Bessie with the big tits and the rest, but he never did. Lord Snow always sat and drank and watched her colourful world go by, or played cards. And stared at her like a man lost in the desert admiring a cool lake of water he wanted to immerse himself in. Apparently she was an endless source of fascination, which both annoyed her and made her preen like a popinjay, which was in itself annoying. 

Ever since her husband had died in a skirmish with the Tsar’s henchmen on the endless windy steppes of home and she had taken his money, his Cossacks and landed in London to start again, she had had nothing to do with men other than in a business capacity. She ran her life, her business, and her person like a finely calibrated watch, control, order, and cunning the only way she survived in a man’s world, her exotic looks and origins only part of her Madam’s armour. 

She didn’t need the distractions of melancholy eyes, inky curls, a gravel-toned, courteous voice and a finely cut figure in red and black, her favourite colours. She didn’t need to have her mind wandering to lusty thoughts of his full lips and bristly moustache on her throat and breasts, and further below. She was surrounded by people whose preoccupation was indulging in the myriad ways bodies could join together for a price, and it was hard not to respond to the ambiance. She always turned down those men who wanted to woo her, or pay an exorbitant fee for her attentions. Her own hand was better by far, or the hands and mouth of another woman. 

Men were nothing but trouble, particularly beautiful men who were used to hussies falling in their laps, and God knows all of her girls had straddled those tight breeches at least once in a vain attempt to lure Lord Snow upstairs, and he always looked like he was struggling to say no. He was just a man, like any other. No matter that he was so alluring in his quiet way, that his silence and restraint was intriguing rather than dull. 

She hovered in the doorway, the murmurs of men and the tinkling of Missandei at the piano fading in her ears as she eyed him back. He took her in from slippered feet to silvery hair, his eyes the rich dark of chocolate, his skin smooth and pale over the sculpted lines of his jaw, his Macassar oil struggling to tame hair that was curly and lush. His mouth quirked at her over the rim of his Glenfiddich, red and ripe as a plum, and suddenly she wanted to be stupid and indulgent, just for a while.

She took a sip of wine and hovered, on the threshold of moving forward to engage, those brown eyes almost imploring her, his lean, graceful body straightening in his wing chair. She always made sure to find out as much as she could about her clientele, but as he didn’t take the whores to bed she knew little of him other than the basics. A bastard son of a rich earldom whose father had passed him a title but little else. A valiant commander who had fought in South Africa, the Sudan, and Arabia, his officers said. A true gent, her smitten ladies sighed. Even her doormen didn’t want to gut him, their usual instinct with the customers. 

As he was a man of quality, and she was the Madam of a whorehouse and a foreigner to boot, he would have nothing to offer her other than making her his mistress. He wouldn’t woo her with flowers and strolls in Hyde Park and sumptuous dinners at the Ritz. He wouldn’t laden her hand with a diamond and take her home to his northern castle to meet his family. She would be his whore with a discreet label, but in her profession she could expect little more from any man who wasn’t a rogue or thief. And she could take care of herself, protect herself from unwanted children, unwanted heartache, if she was minded to be very stupid this night.

She didn’t need to take the first step, he did, rising and approaching her with an impeccable bow. ‘Madam Daenerys,’ he said in his husky, appealing voice. ‘You are looking particularly beautiful this night.’

Close in, she could smell him, a mix of French cologne and warm skin under layers of wool and starched cotton, could see how long his lashes were as they lowered over his intense stare, the curve of his whiskers over his pretty mouth. In his polished riding boots, his red coat gilded with braid to augment his broad shoulders, he made her feel tiny and dainty, and she felt a blush stain her face. She kept her voice cool and businesslike to counter her fluttering. 

‘Lord Snow,’ she said, finishing her glass and disposing of it. ‘You have visited my establishment every month for the last six months and have never selected one of my ladies. Do they displease you? Your men seem happy to avail themselves of what is on offer.’ She had bullied herself over years and years to speak perfect English and even think in it, so there was only the merest hint of an accent when she conversed with her clients, enough to beguile, but not enough to be dismissed as a mere foreigner. 

The Lord paused, struggling for a smooth riposte, but surprisingly he found it, making her blush positively rosy. ‘I am a one woman man, Madam, and the only woman I am interested in in this establishment is yourself. My greatest pleasure is to watch you, and I am happy to pay for your overpriced drinks and play your rigged card games for the privilege.’

She wished she still had her wine glass as a shield, her hands twisted in her skirts, her lids lowering to hide from his hot eyes, which were focused on her lips. ‘I am not for sale at any price,’ she said at last. ‘Drinking and staring is all I have for you, my Lord.’

‘I hear you have no husband, no lover,’ he said, his voice rough but quiet, eager to engage but not eager to be overheard. ‘How do you take your pleasure? A woman so beautiful and fierce shouldn’t be so lonely.’ His eyes had that imploring look again, like a doe with a hunter, though she was the one being hunted. She didn’t like to be called lonely, especially not by him, so she bridled. 

‘In my long and vast experience, pleasure is near exclusively a man’s game, not a woman’s,’ she said rather tartly. She couldn’t help bedevilling him a little rather than doing the wise thing and walking away, so she gave him something to think about. ‘I am better off with my own hand and vivid imagination than inviting a man into my bed, no matter if he offers me the world for it.’

It didn’t make him blush or stammer, as she was expecting. Perhaps Lord Snow was emboldened by too many whiskies, or the months of looking and not touching was crumbling his reserve. ‘All I have to offer you, my lady, is the opportunity to prove you very wrong. Believe me, it is all I have been thinking about these weeks, all I would do to you, if I got the chance.’ At her gasp and the raising of her hand to ward off or slap, he did blush a little, but didn’t back away. 

‘You’re a fine specimen of man to look at, my Lord,’ she acknowledged. ‘And I hear you are a noble and brave commander to your men.’ Her voice was steely but shaking, her hand lowering, hating how he had her in a tizzy but enjoying it all the same, the duel of words and looks she had not expected to get tonight. ‘But I doubt you have any special skills I am not already well acquainted with.’

He wasn’t a man who smiled usually, he was too intense and broody, but he smiled now, a slow, secretive quirk under his fine moustache, as if she had given him a key to her she had no recollection giving. Flustered, she stood up straight, lifting a corner of her skirts to get ready to stalk off, but he moved in very close and whispered in her ear. ‘Go on, call your savages to throw me out on my arse, or take my arm and lead me upstairs. A lady’s choice.’ 

She thought about the wise choice, having the doormen toss him out onto the street never to return, and sweeping upstairs to her lonely four poster bed. She looked everywhere but him, scanning the room to check no one was watching, catching a curious gaze from Missandei at the piano but nothing else. Her eyes were dragged back to him at last, from his black boots to his blacker hair, and finally his dusky, enchanting eyes, which were full of honest yearning, not arrogance. 

The alternative was to give her body over, remind herself what it was like to have a man between her thighs, straining and hammering, making her weak, making her soft and slick and yielding. She closed her eyes as a wave of desire traveled from her loins to her beaded toes. She hadn’t liked her husband much, but she missed a man’s hard, heavy length piercing her, pinning her down, missed what it felt like to be held in an embrace which was all muscle and bone and power. 

His red coated arm was crooked in her direction, and she sighed in submission, slipping her hand through it. ‘I am yours for the night then, Lord Snow. Be warned, you cannot afford me, and you cannot impress me, but it is a quiet night, and I am minded to find out what is under that splendid uniform.’

‘You do me great honour, my lady,’ he murmured into her ear, the tickle of his moustache making her purr inwardly as he guided her towards the stairs. There would be talk in the morning, the girls would be agog for news, her protective men resentful, but she rarely spoiled herself, and this was a sinfully silly and indulgent escapade never to be repeated, or spoken of again, she vowed. Mmm, he smelled divine, and the heat of him against her was like a brand, his long fingers laced in hers to keep her close, but there were no second thoughts, she would let him have all of her, and more. 

All men were beasts, whether a fancy lord in the king’s colours, or humble sailor or barrowman, but some were the good kind.


	2. Chapter 2

_ _

 

_ A/N; Ladies and the odd gent, I am so befuddled and pleased with the reaction to this little fic I don’t know where to start with replying to comments. Be assured I appreciate all of them, but I thought you would prefer the next part rather than me spending my spare time compiling awkward replies. Above is a special Lord Snow valentine just for you, words are mine, art is  _ **_Justwanderingneverlost_ ** _. I will leave this as a two part for now, but I might resurrect it later. Enjoy the promised luscious smut.   _

 

The poets said that the eyes were windows into the soul. She usually had no time for sentimental nonsense, there being little romance in the business of selling sex at a premium price, but as she stood in the centre of the rug before her bed, looking up into his velvety orbs, she felt trust in her cynical heart. Her men would have tracked where she went and with whom, but it was still a risk, to be alone with a man she barely knew, and offer herself to be stripped and fondled and taken. 

The room was quiet, lit by the frosted bedside lamps and a small fire in the grate, the frantic coupling and faux noises of pleasure of her girls at work firmly shut out. Lord Snow’s hands formed into fists, and he looked a little lost, but then they were cupping her face carefully, his mouth capturing hers in a tentative brush of lips and hair. The hair was soft, the rest softer, and sweet, a tingling sweetness that sharpened as the kiss deepened. It was like a kiss from a lady’s novel, reverent and careful, but then it went further than most authors dared, his tongue slipping between her lips and flicking over hers. 

She felt it in her belly, raw need stirring and waking, and she couldn’t help the moan that bubbled up, or her hands, one wrapping around his corded throat, the other plucking impatiently at brass buttons. A rough palm smoothed down her sternum, over her bodice, finding the swell of her small breasts over her corset. The other reached down her back to find her bottom beneath her skirts, drawing her closer in. He broke away from sipping at her mouth with a shuddery gasp. ‘I am a braggart,’ he confessed, his expression rueful. ‘It has been so long, and I’ve wanted you for so long I fear I will shame myself.’

She didn’t pause in stripping him of his handsome coat, but she lifted her heavy lids and gave him a warning look. ‘Best not, or I  _ will _ have you thrown out,’ she whispered, only half joking, and he snorted, leaning in catch her mouth again. He was a sublime kisser, just the right balance of rough and smooth, and he tasted good to her, his own flavour with a hint of whisky. His coat was on the floor, but there were still collar studs and cufflinks and many other irritants to get through before she found his bare skin. As she huffed into his mouth, he snorted again, and stepped away. 

‘Relax, my lady. Let me assist you, and then you assist me.’ 

She was glad that fashions were becoming simpler and lighter, that he wouldn’t struggle to help her out of her gown. Slightly ashamed at her girlish eagerness, she began to unhook the back, a simple sacque dress in the French style over a nude corset and petticoat, heavy with beadwork. He watched her as he disposed of his cufflinks and shirt collar on her dresser, the starched cotton of the front parting to reveal smooth pearly skin dusted with hair and the remnants of old battles, a ridiculously hard stomach that had come from fighting and not elaborate mess dinners. 

She forgot her tricky hooks and ogled him, boots off, braces lowered, his black breeches with their red stripe sliding over his narrow hips. She suspected the rest of him was equally glorious, but she was denied it for now. Instead she was gathered up, fervent kisses over her neck, her decolletage, deft hands unhooking the rest of her gown so it puddled at her feet. She could feel his cock, trapped and vertical against his belly, and her wandering hand explored the shape, impressive in length and girth. She had listened to her girls giggling over the different sizes and shapes of the male organ and had sniffed, amused, declaring that one was much the same as another, but the one in her hand was very pleasing. 

‘I need you...need to see all of you,’ he growled into her shoulder, struggling with the hooks in her corset. Reluctantly she let go of him to help, the horrible, uncomfortable garment falling loose, air getting into the bottom of her lungs before he stole it from her with his mouth, finding a nipple and sucking it inside with a moan of relief. Famished, he nursed at her like a babe, and she cradled his head, curls escaping and entwined in her fingers. He must have been stationed in England for some time, his skin so pale against his whiskers and lashes, God help her, he was just too tempting. 

There was nothing left to hide behind but her petticoat, garters and stockings, her slippers dropping to the floor as he picked her up and stepped over the pile of garments to drop her on the bed. She looked up at him expectantly, her heedless want pricking her nipples and making her legs fall open in their froth of lace and silk. He hovered at the foot of the bed, eyes too shadowed to read, plucking at the straining buttons at his groin and letting his breeches fall. He had wonderful bulging thighs, but her attention went to his sizeable cock. It had been years, but she was glad she had waited for this.

He wanted her completely naked, peeling off her petticoat and even her stockings, his intense scrutiny of every inch of her making her blush, his lips trailing where his gaze wandered making her writhe and murmur. He was too distant, only bits of him reachable while he kissed her feet and nuzzled the inside of her legs. She was particularly intrigued by his very fine arse, as moulded and plump as a Renaissance statue. He was so well made she felt suddenly plain in contrast, though he whispered to her how beautiful she was, how she made him ache for her, scratchy kisses over her thighs, her hips, finally settling in a crouch betwixt her splayed legs.

He held her down, palms flat on her inner thighs to dip and take a teasing swipe at her cunt, one pass of his tongue to open her, then burying his face in her wispy curls to drink her in. She arched like a cat and made a noise somewhere between a mewl and a yowl, God, she didn’t even know his first name, and he was spelling hers on her clit with the tip of his tongue. Her husband had never bothered, only her female lovers had shown her the French art, but this was different, greedy and furious, the rasp of his moustache adding to the bliss.  

There was an intimacy to the way he mapped her flesh that was quite startling, not the awkward fumblings of a new lover eager to please, but a sophisticate who had been plotting her ravishment. She welled with nectar, her thighs twitched with each flick of her pearl, cried when two fingers eased inside her and beckoned. ‘Snow...Snow...ohhh…’ she moaned mindlessly, and he paused in his ministrations, looking up the slopes of her belly and breasts.

‘You may call me Jon, my lady, at least in this capacity.’ 

‘I am not a lady,’ she panted. ‘Not in this capacity, please call me Daenerys.’ 

She smiled and reached for his curls, bringing his face back down to where she needed him. Torn between wanting to climax and prolonging it until he was rooted inside her cunt, she wavered, then pressed him closer in. He would feel less shamed in the event he couldn’t last the distance if she had found her satisfaction, and he was  _ good _ at this, so good little stars flickered in the red behind her lids, her body heavy and languid yet tense, a spring winding tighter and tighter as he manipulated her inside and out and then, oh, ohhh lord…

She howled and bucked off the bed, disintegrating, a purr against her throbbing flesh, an arm like an iron bar across her stomach to hold her down as he lapped up her juices. He drove her to the threshold of discomfort, thrusting and poking and suckling until she could no longer bear it and pushed him off, heaving as if she had run from Mayfair to Aldgate. ‘Sit up and lie back,’ she managed to get out, fighting for composure, needing to counter her undoing with his. 

Curious, on the verge of asking what woman had taught him such tricks, but then he distracted her by sitting back on his shapely bottom, his head nearly off the edge of the bed, strong thighs crooked invitingly. Between them his cock jutted straight from its thatch of hair, his balls neat and taut. It fairly quivered when she eyed it, winsome and pink with a drop of moisture on its rosy tip. Her husband used to make her take him in her throat, and she didn’t enjoy it, but for him she would try, her mouth even watering at the prospect. 

At first, she explored him in small steps, entranced by having a beautiful male body to investigate, his musky taste condensing on her tongue as she traversed from his neck down to his pectorals, licking each nipple, paying court to each rib of muscle in her way, her loose hair sweeping over him. He was trembling, and when she settled at her destination and ran her tongue up the length of his cock he cursed in an ungentlemanly fashion. 

She smiled, and licked the bead of liquid off him like a kitten, moved her lips down over the tip a mere inch, the flavour and heat and the sight of his face contorting making her sated loins flare up again. He deserved to be worshiped thoroughly, but she was too selfish for that. Swallowing him whole could wait for another time, if she was silly enough to keep him abed for more than a single night, but she inched down a little further, circling the head delicately, passing her tongue over the slot, absorbing his ragged moans. 

Being in control made her feel more at ease, the power was in her hands until she gave it over, and he was passive, his eyes now dilated to black and full of awe, his limbs slack despite his awkward position. She rose up and nipped at his mouth, still slick with her mess, and straddled him, holding his cock carefully and positioning herself. He held his breath, she held hers, and let it out in a whimper of pain as his thickness pierced her partially, it had been so long she felt as tight as a virgin. 

His hands were on her arse to guide her down, but he froze. ‘Is that hurting you, my lady?’ he husked at her, a glint in his eyes that was rather wicked, but his voice all concern. She winced and nodded, but slipped down further, the pain only adding to her hunger to feel him notched flush against her womb, but she went slowly, lifting up and descending with only half of him inside to loosen herself. She was growing wetter with each gasp and kiss, each stroke that stretched her muscles, and soon she was rotating her hips, his grasp on her buttocks helping her along. 

She sat up in an arch, impaling herself fully with a cry, bracing her hands on his flat stomach. His cock was liquid heat but as hard and thick as a club, her body was reeling at the impact, nerves firing under her skin and sweet, sharp agony in the pit of her belly. He made a noise very like a snarl, his moustached lip curling over his white teeth, both vulnerable and daunting. When she let him loose he was going to devour her, and she wasn’t afraid of it, though she prolonged it as long as she could stand, teasing him with little movements, stirring him deep, settling his balls in the cleft of her arse. 

Watching him flex under her, the desire flowing across his handsome face like water, was almost as good as how he felt within her. She was a fool, but this was too divine to dismiss as a rash encounter. She suddenly wanted it never to end, to be locked in this room, their bodies merged as one, the complicated worlds they existed in parallel a distant concern. She wanted to know him, this exquisite swain, wanted to find out if he was as lovely inside as his outer trappings.

Slumping forward, planting her hands on either side of his curly head, she relinquished all control, loud and unhinged as he tightened his grip and hammered upwards, grunting and cursing. She bit him on his elegant throat, enough to leave a bruise to explain away in the morning, and when he fell back exhausted and her slow dance resumed, her sheath fully loosened to take him comfortably, she missed the burn, the struggle, needed it to make her ignite. ‘Now take me,’ she breathed into his curls. ‘Take me, use me like a whore.’

He had her tossed on her back in a heartbeat, slipping out of her with the abruptness of the movement. Her leg bent back to expose her raw, throbbing core, toes finding his bottom for leverage, her hand stroking up his chest to land on his cheek and bring him down for a kiss before he thrust back home. He took her with fierce restraint, his black gaze bouncing between her face and where his cock was engulfed inside her. She could see it herself, the way her body opened for him like a rose. She slid a hand between them to touch the merged flesh, toy with her clit, her head rocked back and hips raised in surrender

She needed him deeper, harder, the wanton noises she was making torn out of her by real pleasure and not any clever playacting, her legs lifting and slotting over his strong shoulders. He blinked at her but adjusted, taking his cue to bear her down into the mattress with fluid, violent thrusts that had her completely lost, so overwhelmed her eyes watered and hands hooked into the covers to anchor herself. She was going to fly up into the air and then fall, fall like a bird in a gamekeeper’s sights. 

She looked up at him, so handsome and anguished, those solemn eyes blank and blissful, hair an eldritch tangle, and let herself fly, her core contracting around him in waves that were not the same as before, far more powerful, flickering in every muscle that was fed by her pumping blood. She was wailing like a banshee, drowning out his own desperate cry, and suddenly he was gone, gone, withdrawing from her in a rush, grabbing his slippery cock and spilling over her, thick streams of seed splashing on her belly and breasts, sparing her the worry of a child but also marking her as his. 

She didn’t care he was making a mess, she groaned in satisfaction and wriggled in her nest of pillows, thighs clamping around his. He was still spilling when he collapsed over her like a felled tree, nuzzling her neck, his breath heavy and laboured, heart racing against hers. ‘Daenerys, I…’ he stumbled. ‘You are all that I dreamed of, and more.’

She laughed dazedly, her hand landing on his head and rumpling it slightly to make it more disheveled, and settled him in a better position, his seed on her body sticking them together like glue. ‘You did not disappoint me, Lord...Jon,’ she murmured. She tried out various flippant words on her tongue, about how she wouldn’t charge him a farthing, that he was safe from being evicted, but in the end she just held him and pretended that this was normal, that he was her partner and not an illicit fuck to be regretted.

After a long while Jon stirred and got up, padding over to the washstand, giving her a nice view of his back muscles and succulent bottom that made her smirk in proprietary fashion. Then her face fell, and she waited for him to finish up and find his clothes and leave. He splashed himself liberally with water and rubbed himself down, but instead of fishing for his breeches chose a clean cloth and soaked it in the basin. He returned, and she hid her surprise and lay passive as he wiped her clean, blushing slightly. She appreciated the small gesture, and appreciated even more when he climbed back in bed with her, curling around her, stroking her streaming hair carefully. 

‘Don’t you have to be back at barracks?’ she asked. There was an awkwardness between them now, their bodies could converse quite beautifully but their souls were still strangers. 

‘Not until Thursday, actually,’ he said. ‘I can leave if you wish to sleep, my lady.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she sniffed. ‘This bed is quite big enough for two, and there will be less talk if you leave when downstairs is quiet.’ He gave her a pleased smile, and dared to move closer in, tucking her into his shoulder. She relished the complex scent of him, fading cologne and sweat and sex, and sniffed him lavishly. 

‘That pleases me. I would have left like a dog with its tail between its legs and pined miserably if you wanted me out,’ he confessed, and she laughed, hope rising in her chest. What she was hoping for, she didn’t know, but she knew it involved more of him, of having this awkwardness fade as familiarity set in.  _ You will be a mistress to turn to at night and nothing more _ , a cynical voice warned her, but she shrugged it off.  

She felt him tense under her cheek, a hitch of hesitation, then he spoke again. ‘I wanted to ask you that if you are minded to leave this bed in the morning, whether you would take a walk with me in the park. The Spring weather is so lovely, and I would like to see what you look like in the daylight, surrounded by grass and flowers and…we could order a picnic hamper from Fortnums and...’

She stiffened and turned her head to look him full in the face, incredulous, and tried to be the sensible one. ‘You can’t be seen in public with me, Lord Snow,’ she said softly. ‘I am the notorious madam of a house of ill repute, and you are a lord and Commander of good family and standing. Surely I don’t need to remind you of what people would say, especially the pious old boots of this parish. It could ruin you.’ 

His velvety brown eyes looked very sad, causing a twinge in her chest, but then his jaw firmed. ‘My family has little to do with me aside from my father, and I will call out any bounder or cad who insults or speaks ill of you,’ he growled. ‘And I will have you know I am a dashed war hero . No one is throwing me out of my regiment for idle gossip, my men won’t bloody have it. And besides,’ he paused, with rather a secretive look. ‘I came back from South Africa with a pocketful of diamonds. I won’t starve for the sin of wooing you, my lady.’

Naive and idealistic, and rather foolish, but still it made her ridiculously happy to hear him profess how little he cared about who and what she was. She couldn’t help the smile that grew on her face, or her girlish hope, though she would likely wince over it later when some spiteful old bitch cut her dead on their walk. 

‘I would be delighted to go to the park with you, Jon Snow, and anywhere else you are minded to escort me,’ she said graciously. ‘But I don’t intend to let you stray from this bed for some considerable time.’ And with that, she leaned in and kissed his pretty plump lips, his moustache tickling her pleasantly, and felt his smile match her own. 

 

THE END?

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to split this fic, because delayed gratification can be fun sometimes and I have a busy weekend. Next part won't be long, but nagging will assist.


End file.
